


I’m caught in the ropes and the wires; the sun settles hard in the south

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, M/M, Mentions of severe torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 00:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: The water of his bath is cooling and he’s haunted, haunted by demons and images and his inability to even speak; too quiet, bound and falling into a dark, blood-threshed water where ripples are ropes curling around his wrists and ripping the flesh apart only to leave a bloody mess behind as it bites his lungs and he can’t breathe and can’t remember his name, a name, his —something.





	I’m caught in the ropes and the wires; the sun settles hard in the south

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting my fanfictions from tumblr here.

* * *

That rage in thick, gasoline strokes— a flame and fire that would send anyone to their early grave, but a fire that burns most secretly in him, a fire he cannot put down; too bright and violent to be tamed—

And it’s too late, far too late, because the muscles have already started cramping, and his mind is a glass of whiskey clouded with alcohol swirls clothed in an amber dress.

“Wake up,” Theseus murmurs in Percival’s ear, “wake up, baby, wake up, wake  _up—"_

The water of his bath is cooling and he’s haunted, haunted by demons and images and his inability to even speak; too quiet, bound and falling into a dark, blood-threshed water where ripples are ropes curling around his wrists and ripping the flesh apart only to leave a bloody mess behind as it bites his lungs and he can’t breathe and can’t remember his name, a name,

_his—_

_Something;_

But Theseus isn’t here, and Percival isn’t drowning, and he isn’t free but condemned each day to wake up to soiled ground and broken, spilled glass that licks at his naked feet— and the horrible taste of faded roses on his tongue, of blood-rivering spleen and liver transfused with scarlet, crushed lilies.

Waking up each day to remember he’s dying—

Maybe already

_fucking dead;_

just a corpse made of dust; and he wishes,

_oh fuck_

he wishes he were able to forget who he is, where he is, what torture and asphyxiation and self-deprivation and blood loss are.

Now—

Just a shadow eaten by the sun that is blinding him and he can’t turn away, can’t look away because his gaze is coal dust and forgotten love letters, stains of the trenches and Grindelwald’s dirty, muddy hands on his throat.

 _Why won’t he go away?_  
  
Plaintive as a child, Percival Graves, what a fucking disgrace, all your pathetic whimpers and thrown-up words of pain that won’t bring you back home.

Day after day—

Growing unfragrant.

Given back to his soiled ground and blood-soaked hands—

Given back to his own body  _broken._

Slowly it’s just about his bones—

His bones in a coffin.

Bullet holes in foreheads from the trenches, arms split and legs severed—

_Theseus and the alcove of his arm, your favorite room, your favorite place, where you could sleep and cry and forget about nightmares—_

And the story keeps coming back; and the ghosts have all abandoned, and vials of black blood unearthed along with bones;

In the wake of battle, his flesh is burnt and beaten and his eyes swollen and voice stolen; a voice that just happens to be a vapor trail swelling with pain and fresh, gasoline dirt sucking at his feet.

 _Goodnight, Percival,_ Grindelwald whispers softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ angryzilla or on twitter @ spreadtheashes.


End file.
